


The Pipe Wrench

by kate_the_reader



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: AU, First Meeting, M/M, artist!Eames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 13:19:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12169671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: Wherein Eames is much, much more than Arthur expected.Based on this tumblr AU prompt: ‘Ok when I pictured the custodian, I was thinking Old Dude With Coveralls, not … you!’





	The Pipe Wrench

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chasingriver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingriver/gifts).



> For my dearest chasingriver, who won a fic in the comment contest, and asked for "any AU".  
> For you, anything! I hope you think it's fun.
> 
> Thanks to MsBrightsideSH for helpful suggestions.

Arthur was in a hurry when he signed the lease, so he didn't inspect the apartment with his usual thoroughness. Sooner or later something was bound to break with no warning.

But the pool of water spreading from under the kitchen sink when he comes in from a trying day a month later is really too much.

He finds the card with the super’s details in his kitchen drawer and dials the number. The voice that answers is difficult to place. British, but tricky to set an age to. A bit posh, but it’s so hard to tell with British accents, really.

“Please come fix this leak before it floods the whole place!” Arthur says frostily.

“Sure,” says the man, “just give me a tick to get my tools together and I'll be right there. Bye!”

When there is a knock on the door 10 minutes later, Arthur is still feeling a bit frosty. His towels have soaked up the worst, but those are good towels, damn it! “Took you long enough,” he says as he opens the door.

On the doorstep is … not who he expected. Every apartment super Arthur has ever dealt with has been an old guy in overalls and a ball cap. Grizzled, grumpy, garrulous. The man on the doorstep is … young … hot … built. And smiling.

“Hi!” he says, in his British accent. “I'm Eames. The caretaker. You're having pipe trouble, eh?”

Arthur holds the door open and tries not to stare too openly at the way the T-shirt pulls across Eames’ shoulders.

“It’s this way,” he says, gesturing pointlessly down the hall.

“Yep,” says Eames, hefting his toolbox.

Arthur swallows hard and follows him into the kitchen.

“No problem!” says Eames, “simple repair, won't take any time at all.” 

He opens the cabinet under the sink and peers in.

“See there,” he says, “joint’s sprung a leak. Few turns of my wrench and it’ll be tight again.”

He stands up and grabs the hem of his T-shirt. 

“What the hell?” thinks Arthur.

“Don't want to get muck all over this, though,” Eames says. “It’s a favorite.” 

The T-shirt is a faded once-black, the logo apparently that of a band Arthur doesn't recognize. As Eames pulls it off, Arthur sees tattoos. He swallows again.

“I’ll just get … you don't want to lie … I'll get a clean towel,” he says, ducking into the hall.

“Get a grip,” he tells himself, fetching yet another thick, expensive towel.

“Ta,” says Eames, taking the towel and spreading it on the floor by the sink. He opens his tool box and takes out a large pipe wrench. “Okay,” he says, lying down on the towel, reaching under the sink with the wrench, his raised arms revealing yet more tattoos.

“So what d’you do, Arthur?” he says, his voice echoing slightly.

“Finance,” says Arthur, staring openly at the abs flexing as Eames manipulates the wrench.

“Oh yeah?” says Eames, “interesting, is it?”

“Sort of,” says Arthur, vaguely.

There’s a hollow bong and a yelp.

“Bugger!” says Eames. “Ow! Banged my elbow,” he says, emerging from the cabinet. “Well, shouldn't leak anymore,” he says, turning on the tap.

No water seeps out from the pipe underneath.

“Right!” says Eames, rubbing his elbow, “that’s sorted then. I'll be off, let you get on with …”

He reaches past Arthur for his T-shirt. He gives off heat, and he smells sharp, a scent Arthur can't place.

“Is your elbow okay?” says Arthur. “At least have a beer …” He thinks he’s got a couple in the fridge, although it's days since he had time to go to the grocery store.

“Yeah, why not,” says Eames, as his face emerges from the T-shirt, his hair ruffled. “You owe me.”

“Do I? Oh god, I don't think I've got cash,” says Arthur.

“Nah, for the banged elbow,” says Eames, his smile revealing crooked teeth. “A beer, a chat.” He leans against the counter, his thighs straining his jeans, which Arthur sees are covered with paint splashes.

He reaches into the fridge, relieved to find two beers.

“Ta,” says Eames, twisting the cap off his and raising it. 

“Um, yeah, cheers,” says Arthur, standing against the breakfast bar, feeling stiff and prim in his suit pants and waistcoat.

“So,” he says, “how long have you been the caretaker?” 

“Not long,” says Eames. “Beats paying rent. Leaves plenty of free time.” He doesn't say what for.

He drains the beer swiftly, before Arthur can think of a proper follow-up question.

“Thanks,” he says, putting the bottle down and leaning down for his tools. “I’ll be off. See you around, Arthur.” 

Arthur follows him down the hall. “Sure, see you around,” he echoes, although he never has, before.

“Oh good god,” he says, leaning against the door he has shut behind Eames.

*

Over the next few days, Arthur finds himself examining his apartment critically, hoping to find something else that might need repairing. 

This faulty light switch? He calls Eames, but gets his voicemail and is chagrined to find it fixed — and a cheerful note left on his kitchen counter — when he gets home.

Nothing else presents itself. He almost loosens a door hinge, but stops himself, guiltily.

Finally, he takes matters into his own hands and is about to knock on the door of the super’s apartment off the lobby one evening when Eames comes in from the street, wind-blown and flushed, carrying a bag of groceries.

“Hello, Arthur!” he says, “need another repair?”

“Um, no,” says Arthur. He can feel himself blushing. “I wondered if you felt like another drink, though,” he says.

“Sure, great!” says Eames. “You’re here now, come in!” 

“No, I meant …” says Arthur.

“Nonsense!” says Eames. He unlocks the door, standing back to usher Arthur in. “’Scuse the mess,” he says, as Arthur almost trips over a huge painting leaning in the hall. “Oops!” says Eames, grabbing Arthur’s arm. “Sorry, nowhere else to keep them all till the show.”

His hand is warm, wrapping around Arthur's bicep.

“Show?” says Arthur, flustered. “You’re an artist!” he says, realization dawning. “Wow!” he adds.

Eames laughs, his eyes crinkling. “Yeah, better with a brush than with a wrench.”

“But not bad with a wrench,” says Arthur, boldly.

“Yeah, well you were lucky your repairs weren't anything too tricky,” says Eames, giving Arthur a little push down the hall, past a series of paintings. They’re all of people in the street. Larger than life size, caught in unguarded moments. Loose brush strokes fill in the backdrops, the figures stand out with startling life.

“Wow,” says Arthur again, feeling a bit at a loss, “these are …”

“Big?” says Eames, gesturing at them looming there, like a crowd thronging the hall.

“Yes, but … so vivid! So alive!” he says, a bit idiotically. 

Eames steers him into the living room, which has been turned into an artist’s studio. Another huge, unfinished canvas leans against the wall, the figure of a kid on a skateboard emerging. Clean brushes stand in jam jars on a table and there are tubes of oil paint in a box. 

Arthur catches another whiff of the scent he noticed on Eames before. Ah, turpentine. Eames pushes a pile of clean laundry to the end of the couch. “Sorry, the place is a tip,” he says, cheerfully. “Getting everything done for the show is taking up all my time.”

“Oh god,” says Arthur, “that light switch could have waited.” He’s really glad he didn't loosen that hinge.

“Nah,” says Eames, smiling, “I’ve got to get out of the flat sometimes. Besides, I can't neglect my duties or I’ll be out on my arse and then where’d I be, eh?” “Well, I guess,” says Arthur, “but I won't call you for minor stuff again soon.”

“Beer?” says Eames, still smiling, “I haven't got any fancy Belgian stuff, though.”

He leaves the room, giving Arthur a chance to look around a bit more. There are large art books stacked on the coffee table, and flyers for art shows and band gigs pinned up. Arthur is stretching to read one pinned up high when he hears Eames clear his throat behind him.

“Here you go,” says Eames.

“When’s your show? Where is it?” says Arthur.

“Cheers,” says Eames, raising an eyebrow.

“Sorry, cheers,” agrees Arthur, feeling a little wrong-footed.

Eames grins at him, revealing those distracting crooked teeth again. 

“The show’s downtown. It’s actually a really big break for me. I've been over here since my degree, trying to break in, and it’s been pretty tough.”

“Over here from where?” asks Arthur.

“Manchester,” says Eames, “went to uni there, but I felt like a change, so I came here.” 

“I also came after college,” says Arthur. “I hardly knew anyone. It is tough.”

He wonders why he’s confessing this to Eames, with whom he’s exchanged barely a handful of words. Maybe it's because he’s spent so much time thinking about him. His muscles, and his tattoos and his crooked smile — his mouth! — and his interesting voice. 

“Get a grip,” he tells himself, just in time to hear Eames say: “I’ll put you on the guest list at the gallery if you’d like.”

“I’d love that!” says Arthur, returning Eames’ smile, “That would be great.” 

He tips his beer bottle at Eames again. 

“Well, excellent,” says Eames. 

When he sees Arthur out after they’ve finished their beers, his hand brushes Arthur’s as they both reach for the door handle. He lets it linger there a fraction.

“Thanks for coming down, Arthur,” he says. “I’ll see you at the gallery next week. If not before.” He smiles, and Arthur lets his dimples break out in response.

“Yes!” he says. “But no light switches or water leaks, promise.”

“Well,” says Eames, “if it wasn't for a leaky pipe ...” He winks. “Bye, Arthur,” he says, closing his door.

Arthur can't stop smiling as he waits for the elevator. 

He doesn't linger in the lobby every day, he tells himself, but taking his mail out of his box does seem to take longer now than it ever used to. He doesn't see Eames there, though.

Instead, it is Eames who comes to Arthur’s door.

“Hi,” he says, when Arthur answers his knock, soon after getting home. “I hate to do this, but could you come and help me load my canvases? My mate who was supposed to do it twisted his ankle playing cricket in the park.” He smiles a bit sheepishly, those teeth firmly locked away.

“Um,” says Arthur, “uh, of course!” He turns to grab his keys from the hall table.

“You may want to change into something else,” says Eames, his eyes running down Arthur’s body, still clad in suit pants and waistcoat. His eyes widen a bit and he raises an eyebrow. “Wouldn't want to rip those lovely trousers.”

“Oh,” laughs Arthur, “of course. Sorry. Come in,” he says, opening the door wider. “I'll just go …”

Eames follows him down the hall into the living room.

“Um,” says Arthur, nodding at his bedroom door, off the living room, “I’ll just go …” 

He steps through the open door and faces a dilemma — close the door and risk seeming a prude, or leave it open and risk embarrassing Eames?

Eames turns to examine his bookshelves with apparent interest, relieving Arthur of the burden. He grabs the jeans he was wearing last night and a clean T-shirt and steps to the far side of the bed, out of the line of the door. He undoes his pants and tries to step out of them, only to be thwarted by his shoes. “Get a grip,” he tells himself, sitting down to undo the laces. He’s just pulling up his jeans when Eames’ voice floats into the room.

“Did you enjoy this?” 

Arthur turns, his hands on his fly. Eames is standing in the doorway, a book in his hand. His eyes drop from Arthur’s face to his hands and travel back to his face, which is now hot and pink.

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding very sorry. He steps back. 

“What was that, Eames?” says Arthur, tugging off his tie, unbuttoning his waistcoat, hurrying out of his shirt. “What book?” 

“ _Cloud Atlas_ ,” says Eames. “I liked that other one.”

Arthur is pulling on his T-shirt, so his voice is muffled. “Yeah. Tricky. Interesting,” he says.

“Can I borrow it then?” says Eames, appearing in the doorway again. His eyes flick up, and Arthur runs a hand over his hair, ruffled by the T-shirt.

Arthur grabs the hoodie he’d flung over the chair last night. “Sure,” he says.

“Thanks, love!” says Eames, his smile freezing at the tense expression Arthur can feel on his own face. “Sorry,” he says, “I’m English.” He shrugs. “You ready?”

“Yeah,” says Arthur. “What is it we need to do?”

“Load all the paintings in my mate’s van, take them to the gallery, unload them there. We’ll hang them tomorrow.” 

“Okaaay,” says Arthur. “Don't they need to be, I don’t know, packed or something?”

“Nah,” says Eames, “they’ll be okay. It’s not that far. I'll drive carefully.”

The huge canvases are tricky to maneuver out of the apartment and into the van illegally parked at the curb, but instead of being annoyed, Arthur finds himself laughing with Eames.

Finally, all 15 are in the van and Eames shuts the doors with a satisfied look. It’s getting late and Arthur says, impulsively, “Do you want to get something to eat? Before we unload these? On the way? I don’t know …” He trails off, suddenly afraid he’s trying to stretch out the interaction too far. But he thinks he has understood the interest in Eames’ eyes.

Eames glances over. “Hell yes! I'm starving,” he says, walking round to the front of the van.

Arthur has never driven in New York and he wonders if Eames has either, but he negotiates the van confidently, if a little erratically, across Brooklyn and over the bridge towards downtown. They pass Arthur’s office building.

Finally, Eames pulls up in a loading bay outside a storefront gallery. “Here we are!” he says. “There’s a brilliant little place nearby,” he says, getting out. He comes round the van and stands by Arthur’s door. It's a weirdly courtly gesture, although he doesn't open the door, or offer his hand or anything. 

“Okay, great,” says Arthur, “anywhere. I've never eaten up here,” he says.

Arthur has worked in New York for a year now, catching the subway to work, coming home, finding his way round parts of Brooklyn. He sometimes goes out with people from work, and there are a few people from college. He wouldn't say he was lonely, exactly.

Eames leads Arthur a block to a tiny restaurant, just a few tables. He is greeted as he enters, “Hey, Eames, how ya doin’, man?”

“Great,” he says, smiling, “just getting the show together. Andre, this is Arthur.”

Arthur smiles, tentatively. He’s never been introduced to a waiter before.

“Arthur,” says Eames, “you’re going to have the best burger you’ve ever had, trust me!”

The waiter nods. “Beers?” 

“Um,” says Arthur, “should we?”

“One can't hurt, we’re going to be a while, love,” says Eames. “Oops,” he says, grinning.

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “That’s okay. You’re English,” he says, smiling too.

The burgers are fantastic.

“I wish there was somewhere as good as this down near my building,” says Arthur, licking a drop of sauce from his wrist.

“Aren't you afraid you'd drip on your tie?” laughs Eames. 

“I’d risk it,” says Arthur.

Eames reaches across the table and swipes his thumb across the corner of Arthur’s mouth. “You missed a bit,” he says, licking his thumb.

Arthur freezes, staring at Eames. “Thanks,” he mutters. He can feel himself frowning. 

The smile falls from Eames’ mouth. “Sorry,” he says quietly.

He turns to Andre, passing by with another order. “Can we get the bill, please?”

It’s easy to split, and they are on the sidewalk in minutes.

“I'm sorry,” Eames says again, glancing at Arthur as they walk, “I forgot we hardly know each other.”

Arthur shrugs, “I was surprised, that’s all,” he says. 

Eames opens the door to the gallery, a blank white space. 

“You have a key? Where’s the owner?” says Arthur before he can stop himself. He’s at sea in Eames’ freewheeling world.

“Yeah, they let me have it so they didn’t have to come in.”

The room is quite small. Eames’ 15 huge canvases will fill it, Arthur thinks. They unload them carefully and prop them against the walls, crowding the space with life. Eames stands in the middle and turns slowly. “Should be okay,” he says.

“Okay? They’re fantastic!” says Arthur.

“You think so?”

“Well, I don’t know art, but … yeah, I really like them.”

“So do I,” says Eames, turning to him, a shy smile lighting his face. “I like watching people.” He looks steadily at Arthur, a beat longer than mere friendliness dictates. “Well, it’s getting late, I suppose we should go. I’ve got to get the van back. I’ll drop you home first.”

“Okay.” Arthur is a bit disappointed the evening has to end. Eames wants to go hang out with his friend though, he guesses.

They don’t talk much on the drive back to Brooklyn. When Eames pulls up outside their building he says: “I’ll see you at the show tomorrow? It’s after work, for you.”

“Yes!” says Arthur, “I’ll see you then. Bye, Eames.” 

Eames pulls away from the curb and Arthur goes inside, trying not to speculate too much about tomorrow. He does lay out his hippest suit though.

*

The gallery is crowded when he gets there. Mostly people their own age, but there are a few older, more moneyed-looking types as well. He doesn’t see Eames at first as he steps in. A tiny girl is standing behind a table just inside the door. “Hi!” she says, “Are you on the artist’s list?”

“Yes, Arthur Lake.”

She scans down the list “Oh yeah. The bar’s in the back and Eames is around there somewhere,” she says, waving vaguely and turning her attention to someone else. Arthur heads towards the bar. He’ll feel less at sea with a drink in his hand. 

He’s waiting for his white wine when someone crowds up behind him. “Arthur,” Eames says, almost into his ear, “you came.”

Arthur turns, aware that Eames’ voice and proximity have made him blush a bit. “Of course. How’s it going?” Eames is wearing a greenish jacket that looks vintage. The odd color shouldn’t look as good as it does, bringing out hazel glints in his eyes.

“Well, there’re a few people with money,” he says, “and everyone seems to be having a good time.” He looks around at the crowd. Most don’t seem to be looking at the pictures, which stand out above their heads. 

A dark-haired woman floats over. “Eames?” she says, her voice French-accented. “ _Cher_ , come and meet someone with money. And taste.” She takes Eames’ arm. He glances over his shoulder as he is pulled away.

Arthur takes his wine and moves closer to the wall in an attempt to look at the art. He’s contemplating the skateboarder he saw, half-finished, in Eames’ studio, when an Asian guy with curly hair comes to stand by him. 

“Good, yeah?” He also has a British accent. “I’m Yusuf. And you’re Arthur?” Arthur nods. “Thanks for helping Eames out last night. I buggered my ankle.” He grimaces and then laughs. Someone calls his name and he moves back into the crowd, leaving Arthur alone to look at the skateboarder, until Eames comes over with a tall elegant Japanese man. Arthur steps aside to give them room and listens as Eames speaks about the picture, the day he saw the kid, and what he tried to bring out in the portrait. It’s a side of him Arthur hasn’t really seen, before. He is tempted to listen to Eames describe all the pictures to this obviously wealthy man, but that feels a bit creepy, so he moves off in the other direction. A few of the pictures have small red “sold” dots on them already. 

The room gets steadily more crowded and noisy and Arthur doesn’t get another chance to talk to Eames. He steps outside to get some air, thinking it’s time he left. Yusuf is outside, talking to the tiny girl. “You coming out later?” he says.

“What?”

“You coming out with Eames when this mob have left?”

“Oh … I’m not sure …”

Behind him, Eames says: “Course you are, Arthur, aren’t you?”

Arthur turns as Eames steps out. “It’s almost closing time here, and I need a drink after all that sales talk.”

“Which one did Mr Saito buy?” says the gallery girl.

Eames grins. “The woman in the red coat. Says he’s going to bring a friend tomorrow though. I think he might want the busker, too.”

“I’m sure you can charm him into at least one more. Did you see the _New York Times_ guy?”

“Oh god, where?” says Eames. “No, don’t tell me, Ari.”

The girl laughs. “He’s gone. But he looked at everything and said he’d come back tomorrow. You might make the Sunday paper.”

“Well, now I really need a drink!” says Eames. “Don’t leave, Arthur. Make him stay, Yusuf.” And he goes back inside. Arthur hovers on the sidewalk listening to Yusuf and Ari chat about people he doesn’t know. It’s a pleasant evening and there are plenty of people to watch passing by on the street. Some of them glance into the gallery. 

More people are leaving now, and finally Eames comes out with the dark-haired woman. She kisses him on the cheek. “You did well, _cher_. Have fun tonight.” Her eyes linger on Arthur with an assessing look. 

“Thanks, Mal! And thanks for inviting Mr Saito.”

“Thank my husband,” she says with a laugh and takes the arm of a smooth blond guy.

“Yeah, thanks, Dom!” says Eames with a wave as they walk off down the street together.

“Okay, let’s go relax. Thanks for staying, Arthur.” He smiles so warmly that Arthur blushes.

They walk up the block to the same small place they were at last night. It’s obviously some sort of local for Eames. Waiter Andre greets him, and Arthur, enthusiastically, and Eames leads them to a small booth, standing back to let Arthur slide in first and them slipping in after him. His thigh presses up against Arthur’s and he throws a delighted smile at him, bathing him in warmth all over.

“That was good,” he says. “I can’t believe Mal got Saito to come.”

“Yeah,” says Ari. “I bet you sell out after the _Times_ writes it up.”

“They might hate it!”

“Nah, mate,” says Yusuf. “The critic saw that Saito guy was there.”

Arthur doesn’t know anything about the art market, so he thinks he doesn’t have anything to contribute. Yusuf catches his eye. “What do you do, Arthur?” he asks.

“Finance. Boring detail, nothing like Eames.”

“I’m a research chemist, myself. I know nothing about art, really. Eames sort of rubs off on you though. And Ari here.” He gives her a fond look.

“How do you know Eames then?”

“Cricket,” says Yusuf. “We expats stick together. You should come and watch. Except you might find it baffling and a bit boring. Eames is a demon with the willow, though. Quite dashing!”

Arthur has no idea what Yusuf talking about, really, but it’s impossible not to like him. And Eames gives him a delighted smile. “Yes, come and watch, Arthur!” He leans back and slings his arm along the back of the booth. Arthur is intensely aware of his body; his perennial scent of turpentine is now a bottom note, overlaid by a woodsy cologne that washes over him, carried on a wave of Eames’ body heat. 

Andre brings a bottle of white wine to the table. “How did it go? I’ll go and see tomorrow.”

“Very well, I think,” says Eames.

“It went fantastically!” says Ari, “Eames is going to sell out. Well, not sell _out,_ ” she adds.

“Hope not!” Eames laughs. “We’ll have the special, please.”

The special is a tray of small plates to share, and they drink another bottle of wine, talking of other art shows, people the rest all know. Arthur doesn’t have much to say, but he feels included anyway, by the way Eames keeps turning to smile at him, the way he has shifted closer along the bench.

Finally Eames says: “We’d better get going. You might not be playing tomorrow, Yusuf, but I am.”

“I’ll be there though. Twelfth man,” says Yusuf. “You’ll come, Arthur?”

“Um,” says Arthur, “Sure. Will you explain the rules?”

“Of course!”

Eames slides out of the booth. “My treat,” he says, and goes over the register.

“It was great to meet you,” says Arthur. “I’ll see you tomorrow then. Will you be there, Ari?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’ll be at work. No time for hours in the park.”

Eames is standing at the door waiting for Arthur. He holds it open. It’s not a date, obviously, but gestures like this make it feel almost as if it is.

“The subway’s just up there,” says Eames, and they walk in companionable silence. On the train, Eames sits closer than is strictly necessary. Arthur catches his eye in the dark window and they smile goofily at each other.

At the door of their building, Arthur says: “Will you come up for …?”

“Tea?”

“Well, if you want,” says Arthur. “Or something else.”

“Mmmm, Arthur,” Eames practically _purrs_ , standing very close as they wait for the elevator. 

So close, that Arthur boldly turns to him once they step in, and crowds him into the corner. He asks permission with his eyes, dropping them to Eames’ luscious mouth before leaning in and kissing him. Eames grabs Arthur and draws him even closer, until Arthur is practically riding his thigh. In a tiny part of his brain, he prays no one else gets on the elevator, sure he could not stop, not yet. Their luck holds. He grabs Eames’ hand as soon as he hears the ding and practically drags him to his apartment door. He fumbles the key and drops it, Eames laughing and palming his ass as he bends to retrieve it. They stumble through the door; as soon as it’s closed, Arthur turns and gets Eames up against it, gripping his shoulders, biting at his mouth, their teeth clashing a bit as they get used to each other. He slips his hand up behind Eames’ head, to stop it banging against the wood. All the barely suppressed heat from the evening and the previous evening, all of Arthur’s fevered imaginings, pour into this, here, now, kissing Eames. Being kissed by Eames. God, he’s wanted this, since he first opened his door, weeks ago. Kissing Eames’ mouth is almost too good, he pulls away, drops to his throat. Eames tilts his head to give him access, gasps. Arthur can feel his pulse hammering under his lips, the roughness of stubble. Eames slips his hand into Arthur’s hair and tugs lightly to come at his mouth again and Arthur gasps half in surprise and Eames laughs into his mouth. They’re pressed together and they’re both hard and Arthur twitches his hips.

And then Eames pushes at his shoulder and gently breaks the kiss.

“What?”

“Darling,” he says, taking a deep breath. “Arthur. Can we slow down?”

Arthur’s brain can’t quite process this. “What? Why?”

“I’m a bit tipsy. We haven’t even been on one date yet. I hardly know you. You hardly know me. I want to get to know you, a bit at least, first.” Eames has taken Arthur’s hand while he’s said all this.

“You want to get to know me?” He knows that’s a stupid thing to say. Of course. He wants to know Eames, too.

“Isn’t that the way it works? I don’t just want a shag, you know.”

Arthur wishes he could muster any expression other than bafflement.

“No, of course. Yes, you’re right,” he admits.

“Good! Arthur, would you like to come out with me tomorrow evening?” Eames says, rather formally.

“Yes, I would love to.”

Eames leans in and kisses him, with warmth, but less urgent heat than before. “Good. Excellent! Brilliant!” He smiles wide and unguarded, showing his crooked, unAmerican teeth.

“Great! But can I still come watch you play cricket?”

“You really want to? It takes hours, you know.”

“Yusuf said you’re ‘a dashing demon with the willow’,” he says, quoting. “I have to come, so I can find out what the hell he could possibly mean.”

“Oh darling!” says Eames, delighted. “Of course you can come. I’ll make _him_ explain the rules.”

Eames pushes himself away from the door. “Now, I have to get to bed if I’m to be at all dashing tomorrow.”

Arthur can’t help pulling him close for a last kiss. “Thank you,” he says. “For tonight. And tomorrow. And for fixing that leak,” he adds.

Eames laughs. “An absolute pleasure. Best use I’ve ever made of a wrench!”


End file.
